


Let Me

by magnificentbirb



Category: GOT7
Genre: M/M, Shameless Use of Variety Show Kissing Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-10 11:40:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12298506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificentbirb/pseuds/magnificentbirb
Summary: In which Jackson asks Mark to help him practice certain close-contact variety games, because if Jackson is going to accidentally kiss any of his fellow members, well... he'd prefer it to be Mark.





	Let Me

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, if variety shows are allowed to make shameless use of these tropes, then damn it, so am I.

_This is stupid._

The thought comes to Jackson even as he raps his knuckles again the door, two quick knocks, an attempt to be casual.

“Yeah?” The response comes in muffled English.

Jackson nudges the door open and peeks inside. Mark is on his back in bed, phone in hand, the hood of his overlarge sweatshirt tugged over his hair.

Mark fixes him with a wry look, his phone screen casting a dim blue glow across his cheek. “Did you just knock on the door to your own room?”

“I knew you were in here,” Jackson says, stepping inside, trying not to fidget. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t sleeping or something.”

“I’m always at least half-asleep,” Mark says with a small grin. “You know that.” He pauses, seeming to realize how uncomfortable Jackson is. “Something wrong?”

Jackson shuffles a bit farther into the room, keeping his hands behind his back, fiddling nervously with the small stack of papers in his hands.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, “I just… I have a bit of a stupid favor to ask.”

Mark sits up, his brow furrowing. “What is it?”

Jackson throws a furtive glance over his shoulder into the hallway, then closes the door behind himself and moves over to sit on the bed beside Mark.

_This is stupid_ , his brain informs him again, but Jackson shoves the traitorous voice down; this needs to be done eventually, and Mark is one of the only ones who won’t make fun of him for it.

… Probably.

And also, well. If Jackson is going to accidentally kiss any of his fellow members, then he’d prefer it to be Mark.

But that’s a secret.

“Okay,” Jackson says, “so you know how they keep making us do more and more variety these days?”

“Yeah…?”

“And you know that stupid paper game?”

Mark’s mouth starts to quirk up at the corner. “Yeah…?”

Jackson glares at him; they tried the paper game earlier that week, and Jackson lost at least ten papers in the attempt, brushing lips with JB, Jinyoung, and BamBam, who couldn’t stop giggling for hours afterwards.

“ _Well_ ,” Jackson continues, scowling at Mark, “if we’re going to be doing that on live broadcasts, then I’m going to need to know how to actually do it without constantly embarrassing myself, so—” 

“Isn’t the whole point of it to embarrass ourselves?” Mark asks.

“Well, sure, but—”

“It’s all for the fanservice, right?” Mark is downright beaming now, and Jackson is torn between being irritated and fond. “The more times you accidentally kiss us, the more the fans will—”

Jackson claps a hand over Mark’s mouth.

“That,” he says, narrowing his eyes even though he can still feel Mark grinning against his palm, “is not what I want to be known for.”

Mark hooks his fingers around Jackson’s wrist and tugs his hand down. “Fine,” he says. “What do you need?”

Jackson fixes Mark with his best puppy eyes and pulls the small sheets of paper out from behind his back.

“Practice with me?”

Mark raises an eyebrow, still smiling, and Jackson isn’t sure whether he wants to smack that smile off of his face or take a picture.

“You’re serious?” Mark says.

“ _Please_ ,” Jackson says, dragging out the word. He presses his palms together, little papers sandwiched in between. “It won’t take long, and I’ll really owe you one!”

Mark lets out a little laugh. “Jackson—”

“And also don’t tell anyone else,” Jackson says. “I’m embarrassed enough as it is. Can we just… keep this between us? Please?”

Mark sighs and slides the hood from his head, rubbing a hand over his hair. Jackson involuntarily reaches out and ruffles his hair, too, just to make it look a bit less mussed, and then freezes with his hand still on Mark’s head. Mark is Looking at him again, fond and a bit bemused, and Jackson quickly pulls his hand away, fixes his expression back into puppy eyes, and holds out the papers again.

“Please?” he asks.

Mark rolls his eyes and snags the papers out of Jackson’s hands. “Fine. And I won’t tell anyone. Because I’m very nice, and I want you to remember that.”

Jackson whoops softly and throws an arm around Mark’s shoulder, hauling him into a half hug, and then pulls away and puts his game face on.

“Okay,” Jackson says. “What’s the secret?”

“I’d say… breath control.” Mark peels the top paper off of the stack and holds it up. “And a weird sort of trust, I guess. You need to know when the next person has control of the paper before you stop inhaling, otherwise you’ll drop it.”

“Makes sense,” Jackson says. “Are you starting?”

“Look, I really don’t know why you picked me for this,” Mark says. “I’m not a genius at this game or anything.”

“I know,” Jackson says, his heart starting to beat a bit faster than normal. “But it just seemed easier to ask you. You’ll only mock me a little. Maybe.”

Mark narrows his eyes. “Yeah, we’ll see.” He holds up the paper again. “Now, when you can feel my lips against the paper, start inhaling. Sometimes it helps to pinch me or something when you think you have it so that I know I can let it go. Sound good?”

“Yeah.” Jackson’s heart is starting to beat a bit faster in his chest. He tries to tamp it down, because there’s no reason for him to be nervous right now. They’re alone in their room, there are no cameras or staff members watching them, and if Jackson fails, then the worst thing that could happen is an accidental touching of lips and Mark laughing at him, and honestly, does a day go by without Mark laughing at him? And Mark’s lips are… nice. There are worse lips to accidentally touch.

Jackson keeps staring at the papers in Mark’s hand and wonders why he cut so many. That’s a lot of potential failures, a lot of potential kisses, and now Jackson is looking at Mark’s lips and _no_ , that’s not the real reason you’re here, _focus, Wang_.

“Jackson?”

Jackson startles; Mark is watching him with an odd expression, and Jackson suspects that’s not the first time Mark said his name.

“What?” Jackson says.

Mark looks a bit concerned now. “You ready?”

“Yep, totally,” Jackson says, and if his voice is a little higher than usual, well, Mark doesn’t comment on it.

Mark scoots closer to him on the bed so that their knees are touching.

“Okay,” Mark says, and his eyes flicker down to Jackson’s lips briefly before he meets Jackson’s gaze. “Let’s go.”

He opens his mouth and places the thin paper over his lips, and it stays there, arching inward as Mark inhales. And then there’s a hand on the nape of Jackson’s neck, tugging him forward, and suddenly Mark’s face is very close, and his head is tilted, and Jackson can feel his own head tilting to meet him. Jackson parts his lips just as the paper touches them, and he can feel Mark’s lips pressing against his, making sure the paper is safely in place. Jackson starts inhaling, and he feels Mark squeeze the nape of his neck, and Jackson remembers the trick. He reaches up and squeezes Mark’s wrist, and Mark pulls away, lips and hand and all, but it’s fine; the paper is already stuck firmly to Jackson’s lips.

It all happens in seconds, and Jackson is left with a slightly damp piece of paper on his lips and a quicker-than-normal pulse. He tugs the paper away, blinking a bit dazedly at Mark.

“See?” Mark is saying. “It’s not hard when you know what to concentrate on. It’s just that no one tells you the tricks before the first time you do it.” He peels another piece of paper off of the pile and holds it out to Jackson. “Now you pass it to me.”

Jackson stares at the paper for a second before he reaches out to take it, but Mark jerks it out of his reach, leaning in to meet Jackson’s eye.

“Really, are you okay?” Mark asks. “You look flushed.”

That statement only makes more blood flood Jackson’s cheeks. He snatches the paper from Mark’s fingers ( _such long fingers, why does he have such nice long fingers?_ ) and shoves at Mark’s shoulder.

“It’s just weird, okay?” Jackson says. “Don’t make it weirder by talking about it.”

Mark looks dubious, but he lets it go, instead turning to face Jackson full-on on the bed, beckoning to Jackson with both hands.

“Whatever, let’s go,” he says. “Pass me the paper without letting it drop.”

Jackson clears his throat and makes a show of steeling himself, rolling his shoulders, flexing his hands, tilting his neck to both sides, and it’s only when Mark heaves a pointed sigh that he finally lifts the paper to his lips.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Jackson says, and then he inhales, letting the paper come to rest against his lips. He leans forward, and Mark is also already leaning forward, and Jackson places a hand on his shoulder, tugging him closer. He tilts his head, trying to find a good angle, but then Mark’s hands are cupping his jaw, directing him, and Jackson accidentally exhales, sending the paper flitting to the bed between them. Jackson feels Mark’s breath on his lips before Mark pulls away with a groan.

“Come on, man,” Mark says, already getting another slip of paper. “We weren’t even close yet.”

Jackson would like to argue that they clearly were _very_ close, thank you very much, but instead he just takes the paper from Mark and motions that they need to try again.

“I wasn’t expecting you to grab me,” Jackson says. “I’ll be ready this time.”

And he is ready, this time, but also, Jackson doesn’t set the paper very well on his own lips, so when Mark’s lips press against the paper, they also press partly against Jackson’s upper lip, and it’s unexpected and strangely soft and Jackson almost exhales too soon, but he manages to wait until Mark pinches the side of his neck, signalling that he has control of the paper, before he pulls away.

“Better,” Mark says, putting the paper with the others they’ve already used. “I think your trick is going to be the signal that you’re ready. It should be easy enough for the others to catch on, if we aren’t near each other when we play the game.”

“Yeah, hopefully,” Jackson says. He can tell that he’s still blushing, but he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of ignoring both that and the way his heart keeps thudding annoyingly against his rib cage. _Stupid Mark with his stupid nice hands and his stupid soft mouth, this was such a stupid idea._ “Who taught you that trick?” Jackson asks instead, fiddling with one of the unused pieces of paper.

“Jinyoung.”

“He would have a trick ready for this game,” Jackson grumbles.

“Always prepared,” Mark says, his lips tilting in a crooked grin, and Jackson lifts the paper he’s been holding.

“A couple more times?” he says, and Mark nods.

Jackson spends the remaining few minutes of practice focusing on the feeling of Mark’s fingers on his skin and the pressure of Mark’s lips through the paper. They drop only two more papers, once because their noses brushed and Mark started giggling, and the other time because Jackson felt Mark’s fingers curl into his hair and it made his breath stutter and the paper flitted away just as Mark’s lips pressed against his, but only briefly, before Mark jerked away, laughing.

“Do you feel better about it at least?” Mark asks once they’ve used up all of the paper, the used pieces stacked messily between them on the bed.

“I think so,” Jackson says, which is true, but also he feels a bit wobbly, because close contact with Mark will just do that to him sometimes. “Thanks, man.” Jackson claps a hand on Mark’s shoulder, possibly a bit harder than necessary, but it feels necessary to counteract all of the soft touches they’ve exchanged in the past six minutes.

“No problem, weirdo,” Mark says, already lying back down on his bed. He aims a lazy kick at Jackson’s side as he picks up his phone again, grinning. “Next up, Pepero game.”

“Oh god,” Jackson says, a mostly involuntary reaction, and Mark laughs.

*

Jackson doesn't really know why he buys the Pepero.

Well, that's not entirely true—he knows _why_ , he knows it's because of a bright smile and an infectious laugh and delicate fingers and warm lips—but he doesn't quite know why he’s suddenly decided to act on these feelings rather than shove them down like he’s done for the past year or so.

The Pepero remains sealed and stashed in the bottom of his sock drawer for a couple of weeks while album prep and promotions continue as usual. Mark, true to his word, never brings up their previous practice session, to the point where Jackson wonders whether he’s entirely forgotten about it. Jackson can’t possibly forget it. To this day, he finds himself strangely distracted any time Mark bites his lip in concentration, whether during dance practice or when a particular Korean phrase gets muddled on his tongue, and he tries hard not to show too much pleasure whenever Mark hooks a casual arm over his shoulders or squeezes the nape of his neck. Mark is an affectionate friend, easy with his touches and comfortable with contact from the other members, but Jackson still finds himself craving more.

It’s late on a Thursday evening when Jackson finally decides to put Plan Pepero™ into action. He digs the slightly crumpled box out of his drawer ( _not yet expired, that’s a good start_ ) and sits on the edge of his bed, knee bouncing, fingers picking at the top of the box. Mark is in the shower, but he should be done soon, and then it’ll be just the two of them in their room for a bit. The perfect time for practicing silly variety games that involve just a tad too much touching.

Jackson checks the clock ( _just past eleven_ ), then the door ( _still firmly closed_ ), and then the box of Pepero ( _sealed and a bit caved in on one side_ ). It’s the basic chocolate flavor, and for a bizarre, fleeting moment, Jackson panics, wondering whether Mark even likes the chocolate flavor, and what if he refuses to practice with Jackson because he hates that flavor? Or what if he refuses to do it just because—as Jackson is well aware and keeps telling himself—this plan is stupid, and they don’t really _need_ to practice the Pepero game, anyway, because honestly, who cares whether Jackson can win the Pepero game, and isn’t it too obvious what Jackson wants? Will Mark refuse simply because it’s too obvious that all Jackson wants are a couple more almost-kisses...?

Just as Jackson is about to chicken out and shove the Pepero box back into the back of his sock drawer where it can rot forever, for all he cares, the door swings open and Mark comes in, wearing pajama pants and a loose white shirt that exposes more of his collarbones than Jackson (already sweaty palmed and a bit flushed) really needs to see at the moment. Mark rubs at his hair with a towel, not quite watching where he’s going, and Jackson is allowed to just stare for a few seconds, hypnotized by the drops of water running down Mark’s neck and the way his hands flex against the worn blue terrycloth of the towel.

“What’s that?” Mark asks, and Jackson startles.

“What?” he says, afraid that he’s been caught, but then realizes that he’s still holding the Pepero box. “Oh.” He holds up the box, looking sheepish. “Uh. Pepero.”

Mark peeks out from beneath the towel at him, eyes glinting mischievously. “Planning on more practice?”

Jackson flushes from his neck to the tips of his ears. “Not necessarily,” he says, fidgeting with the box. “I just bought it a while back and… found it again. Recently. Tonight. Just now.”

“Mm-hm.” Mark finishes toweling his hair dry and flips the towel over the back of his desk chair. “And why did you first buy it?”

“To eat,” Jackson says. Mark just gives him a Look, and Jackson scowls at him, pouting, and decides to just give in. “Practice,” he admits, grumbling.

Mark sinks onto his bed, facing Jackson with a grin. “Well?” he says. “Aren’t you going to ask me?”

“Who says I was gonna ask _you_?” Jackson says automatically, fingers clenching around the Pepero box.

“What, you want to practice with someone else?” Mark asks, raising an eyebrow. He half rises. “Should I get Jaebum, or do you want Jiny—?”

Jackson snags Mark’s wrist before he can go too far and tugs him onto the bed next to him.

“ _Fine_ ,” he says, hand curling tightly around Mark’s wrist. “Yes, I want to practice with you, because you were good at it last time and you kept your promise and you didn’t tell anyone and that was nice of you, okay?”

Mark grins at him. “Good,” he says. “I’d feel a bit hurt if you suddenly decided you wanted to practice stupid variety bits with other people.”

_No, only you_ , is what Jackson says in his mind, but the words get stuck somewhere in his chest, so instead he just clears his throat and focuses on tearing open the Pepero box.

“I don’t know any tricks to this, you know,” Mark says as Jackson fumbles with the box. “I feel like we just have to not be afraid to get really close.”

Blood rushes to Jackson’s ears as he finally gets the box open.

“I think we can manage that,” he says, finally pulling out the first Pepero stick. He’s surprised when Mark plucks it from his fingers and automatically puts the chocolate end between his own front teeth. He meets Jackson’s eye and shrugs.

“Go big or go home,” Mark says through teeth clenched around the Pepero stick. “Come on.”

Their first attempt is… well, rather pathetic. Jackson’s heart starts to race as soon as Mark leans closer to him, and by the time Mark is inches away and still getting closer, his eyes starting to close, Jackson panics and bites down on the Pepero stick.

A piece of cookie inches long and still covered in chocolate drops to the bedspread between their knees, and Mark sits back with a laugh.

“That was pitiful!” he crows in English, and Jackson, ears flushing, can't help but agree.

“Again,” Jackson says, placing a new stick between his teeth. He does better this time, managing not to panic too early, but he tenses as soon as Mark places a hand on his neck, and they still end up with about an inch of cookie between them and Jackson’s heart in his throat.

“We can do better, come on,” Mark says, already going for another stick. “Don’t think too hard, okay? It's just me.”

_That’s the whole problem_ , Jackson thinks helplessly, but Mark is already watching him expectantly, Pepero between his teeth, so Jackson lets out a slow breath, and then leans forward and bites down on the other end of the stick. Immediately, he starts focusing on anything but the Pepero, which is the exact opposite of what he planned to do. He finds himself distracted by the way Mark’s damp hair falls into his eyes, small drops still clinging to some of the strands, threatening to fall. He’s distracted by the way Mark leans subtly into his space and settles one hand on Jackson’s shoulder, tugging him forward a bit. He’s distracted by the way Mark’s lips are already moving towards his, and that’s when he realizes he should still be trying to play the “game.”

Jackson leans forward, teeth edging further along his end of the Pepero. Mark’s face is very close now, and there are bare centimeters of cookie and chocolate between their lips. After a moment of hesitation, Jackson lifts a hand and rests it gently against the side of Mark’s neck. He feels the tendons in Mark’s neck tense slightly at the touch as Mark’s breath hitches, and Mark’s eyes flick up to meet his, too close, warm and dark, and then their lips are brushing, softly enough to make Jackson shiver, and then Mark bites down, and Jackson bites down, and the tiniest bit of Pepero falls into Mark’s waiting palm, no more than a couple of centimeters long.

Jackson lets out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding; beside him, Mark does the same.

“Well,” Mark says, and his voice cracks slightly, his lips quirking into a crooked smile as he lifts his palm between them. “I think we do pretty well when we’re both concentrating, how about you?”

“We’re naturals,” Jackson says faintly. There’s color on Mark’s cheeks, more than would come from a recent shower, and Jackson is a bit dizzy from it. He keeps replaying in his head the way Mark’s breath hitched, the way their eyes met, and that couldn’t all just be him, could it...?

“Doesn’t seem like you need much more practice for this,” Mark says, getting to his feet. “You’ll be a champion in no time if you keep playing like that.” He tips their tiny used pieces of Pepero into the trash, then raises his arms in a languid stretch, the hem of his t-shirt lifting to expose the barest amount of belly. “I’m going to wash my face and grab a snack,” he says. “You need anything?”

“N-no, I’m good,” Jackson says, even though his mouth has gone slightly dry, and he’s lost his train of thought, but then Mark has lowered his arms and snagged the towel off of the back of his chair and is heading out the door.

“Mark,” Jackson calls after him, and Mark pauses on the threshold, glancing back at him. “Thanks,” Jackson says. He’s back to fidgeting with the Pepero box, tugging at the torn cardboard top. “I know it was stupid, but… thanks.”

Mark smiles at him, and Jackson thinks he can see that soft blush again, but it’s hard to tell.

“Anytime,” Mark says, and then he slips out the door.

Jackson lets out a loud sigh and flops back onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling light. He tosses the Pepero lazily onto the bedside table and claps a hand over his eyes, replaying the last few minutes in his mind. He hears Mark’s breath catch, sees his overbright gaze, feels the way Mark’s fingers clenched just slightly on his shoulder when their lips met, right before he bit down on the last centimeter of Pepero. There’s no way Jackson imagined all of that. Mark felt it, too—felt _something_ —and Jackson is going to figure out what the heck it was.

By the time Mark comes back, Jackson has turned off the light and crawled beneath the covers, but he’s not quite asleep yet. He hears Mark come in quietly, and knows from the way Mark doesn’t turn on the light and shuts the door behind him with the barest _click_ that he assumes Jackson is asleep. Jackson listens intently as Mark shuffles to his own bed and slides under the covers, and it’s quiet for a few moments, no sound but their breathing, before Jackson hears a quiet word from Mark’s bed, so soft that Jackson almost believes he dreamed it:

“ _Shit._ ”

*

A month or so passes before Jackson musters up the courage to try anything else. In the meantime, they have practice and recording sessions, all leading up to another album release, and Jackson barely has time to breathe, let alone think about what other variety games he could practice with Mark.

It’s not until the night after their last recording session, which they somehow manage to finish by eleven o’clock, that Jackson even finds himself alone with Mark again, getting ready for bed together in their room. Jaebum was last seen sprawled half-asleep on the living room couch, Jinyoung half-asleep at his side. Youngjae retreated to his room as soon as they got home, and the kids were out on a late-night ramen mission.

Jackson tugs off his shirt, planning to sleep in the black tank he has on underneath. Mark has already buried himself in a giant sweatshirt, sleeves rolled up just enough for his fingers to poke out so he can play on his phone. He flops back on his bed, scrolling through some app or another, and Jackson is suddenly reminded of the night he asked Mark to practice the paper game with him.

The memory makes Jackson blush, and he hurries to turn off the overhead light, leaving Mark’s bedside lamp as the only source of light in the room.

Mark peers at him past his phone.

“Going to sleep already?” he asks.

“Not sure yet,” Jackson says. “I might watch something before I actually sleep.”

Mark hums in response and goes back to his phone, but now Jackson is looking at him, watching as his thumbs skim across his phone screen, as his lips part in a little sigh. He looks cozy, soft and tired.

Jackson thinks he’s the prettiest boy he’s ever seen.

The realization slams into Jackson like a freight train, and he suddenly finds himself slumped on his bed, having sat down at some point not of his own volition.

Jackson finding Mark attractive is by no means a new thing. Jackson thinks that all of his group members are attractive, he’s not _blind_ , and he’s always considered Mark to be one of the more handsome members, when asked, but this new realization—the realization that Jackson might consider Mark to be the most handsome boy in the _world_ —is a surprise, and more than a bit overwhelming.

_I think... I like Mark._ He tests the words out in his mind, feeling the shape of them, the reality of the admission. _I think that Mark is beautiful. I have a crush on Mark. I... want to kiss Mark?_

That last thought comes along without warning, and Jackson’s entire face heats up when he realizes that it is, without a doubt, incredibly, one hundred percent true.

“Jackson?”

Jackson blinks. Mark is watching him carefully, half sitting up, looking concerned.

“You okay?” Mark asks.

“Fine,” Jackson says, and his voice only breaks a little bit.

Mark watches him warily, and Jackson feels a little light-headed just from staring at him. Mark’s hair is mussed after a long evening in the recording studio, and his face is bare, and he’s wearing a sweatshirt that’s at least three sizes too big for him, but to Jackson, he looks perfect.

So Jackson decides to be brave.

_Go big or go home._

Steeling himself, Jackson launches himself off of his bed and plops down on Mark’s, right next to Mark’s hip. Mark sits up, looking cautious, but curious.

“I want to try something,” Jackson says.

“Okay,” says Mark, setting his phone aside.

“I don't have a game this time.”

“Okay…” says Mark again, sounding a bit less sure. 

“If it's weird, you can just tell me, and we can pretend it never happened, okay?” Jackson says, rubbing his palms against his thighs. “Just like the other games we practiced. It'll be our secret. Sound fair?”

Mark nods, still looking rather lost, and he looks so cute that Jackson might end up bursting into flames right here on this bed.

“And I’m sorry in advance if this _is_ weird,” Jackson continues, and he knows he's rambling now, putting off what he came here to do, but he can't help it; rambling is his defense mechanism, and right now he's so scared that he's going to mess everything up that he's willing to keep talking until the universe explodes. “But it's an idea I’ve had for a while, and it just sorta hit me tonight, and I can't really shake it, so I figured I’d give it a shot, but it could also be a really bad idea, so I’m kinda out on a limb here, but I’m hoping it won't be _too_ bad, because if it works out it could be really _good_ , so I’m just hoping you'll keep an open mind and let me—”

Mark kisses him.

Jackson blinks, surprised at being cut off mid-rant, and yes, those are Mark’s hands cupping his jaw, and those are Mark’s lips pressed against his, and those are Mark’s eyes so close to his, lightly closed, eyelashes dark and long and so, so close.

Before Jackson can properly process this, though, Mark pulls away, still holding Jackson’s face, and looks Jackson straight in the eyes.

“That's what you wanted to try, right?” he says, a bit breathless.

“Um,” Jackson says. “Yeah.” He blinks, a bit dizzy. “Yeah, that was it.”

“And how was it?”

Jackson stares at him in bewilderment, his heart racing, chest and cheeks warm, goosebumps pricking the back of his neck. He watches Mark grin at him, a bit nervously, and Jackson cannot believe that this boy—the prettiest boy Jackson has ever seen—just kissed him and is clearly hoping that Jackson is okay with it.

So instead of answering, Jackson leans forward, hooks a hand around the back of Mark’s neck, and tugs him in for another kiss.

Mark laughs as Jackson reels him in, a wonderfully familiar sound, high and breathy and possibly Jackson’s favorite thing in the world to hear, and then their lips meet. The kiss is a bit sloppier this time, because Jackson is too excited and Mark’s lips are parted in a smile and they kind of miss each other a bit, but then Jackson presses closer, and he feels Mark press back, and the kiss is warm and soft, and Mark’s hand is on Jackson’s shoulder, squeezing tightly, and Jackson feels like he could float straight up to the ceiling.

“That good, huh?” Mark murmurs against Jackson’s lips, and Jackson lets out a huff of disbelieving laughter, and then scoots closer on the bed so that he can wrap his arms around Mark’s neck, tilt his head, and kiss him again.

Kissing Mark is fantastic. Kissing Mark is quite possibly Jackson’s new favorite pastime. He focuses on every little detail of the kiss, on the way Mark goes soft in his arms, the way Mark threads his fingers through Jackson’s hair, the way Mark’s lips part beneath Jackson’s so easily, like this isn’t brand new for the both of them, like they’ve been kissing each other for years.

“Were you planning this the whole time?” Mark asks eventually, pulling away a bit, lips red and cheeks flushed.

“Planning what?” Jackson says, a bit dazed. He can’t seem to look away from Mark’s lips, which are parted and damp and ever so distracting.

“Kissing,” Mark says. “Since the paper game. Was this the plan?”

“Oh. Uh.” Jackson lifts a hand to the back of his neck, a nervous habit. “Would you believe me if I said not exactly?”

Mark’s brow furrows slightly in confusion, and Jackson has a moment of panic, because no, that shouldn’t be happening, Mark shouldn’t be _frowning_ when he’s freshly kissed and still in Jackson’s arms.

“What do you mean?” Mark asks.

“I really did just want to practice at first,” Jackson says quickly. “And I figured I could practice with you because we’re close and you’re nice and you wouldn’t make fun of me too much and also I thought that maybe it wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing if the paper slipped and we ended up… well…” Jackson gestures vaguely between the two of them, still closely entwined, and Mark’s face clears, grinning once again.

“Definitely not the worst thing,” he says, and then he’s kissing Jackson again, and oh, Jackson could get used to this.

“Were _you_ planning this?” Jackson asks breathlessly after another few minutes of wonderful, wonderful kissing, because as little as he wants to stop kissing Mark, ever, he now can’t stop thinking about how long Mark has wanted to kiss him.

Mark tilts his head, one hand playing absently with the hair at the nape of Jackson’s neck, sending pleasant shivers down Jackson’s spine.

“Not officially,” Mark says. “But I suspected you might be up to something when you bought the Pepero.”

“And you just went along with it?” Jackson asks. “That was so embarrassing.”

Mark leans in slowly, smirking slightly. “Why would I discourage you?” he asks, a mere breath away from Jackson’s lips, and Jackson somehow wants to both punch him and kiss him, and because their lips are already so close, and Jackson really wants to kiss Mark again, the kiss wins out.

“So what now?” Jackson asks after another few minutes of making out, after which they’re both flushed and bright-eyed and breathing heavily and Jackson can tell he’s more than a little hard, but it’s midnight and they’ve had grueling schedules and Jackson knows—from the way Mark was drooping earlier that day and how quickly he went to the van when it was time to leave—that they both could use some rest.

“Now,” Mark says, placing another soft kiss to the corner of Jackson’s mouth, “I get to kiss you whenever I want.” Another kiss, this time on Jackson’s jawline. “If that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” Jackson says distractedly, raising his head so Mark can place a kiss on his neck. “Yeah, that would be great, thank you.”

Mark laughs again, quietly, mostly into Jackson’s neck, and Jackson wraps his arms around him and squeezes. Jackson’s entire body feels warm; he can’t remember the last time he was this happy.

“We should sleep,” he says, a bit reluctantly, but he knows it’s the right choice as soon as Mark goes heavy in his arms, as though just reminded of his exhaustion.

“Mm, yeah,” Mark says, voice muffled against Jackson’s shoulder. “Probably.”

“Can I—?” Jackson clears his throat, mustering up courage. “Can I—do you mind if I sleep here tonight? With you?”

“You’d better,” Mark mumbles, and then Jackson finds himself dragged down onto the bed beside Mark. Mark curls against Jackson’s side, his head pillowed on Jackson’s shoulder, one arm looped around Jackson’s chest, a leg thrown across Jackson’s shins.

“We didn’t turn off the light,” Jackson says, pulse thumping, staring at Mark’s dim bedside lamp.

“We’ll live,” Mark mumbles, already half asleep. Jackson cranes his neck to peek down at him. Mark’s eyes are closed, his lips—still a bit red—slack and slightly parted. 

“Are you really falling asleep?” Jackson whispers. Mark doesn’t respond, either actually asleep or determined to be so soon.

Brimming with fondness, Jackson presses his lips against Mark’s forehead in a chaste little kiss and snuggles closer to him, already a little too warm and not caring in the slightest.

“Night, hyung,” Jackson whispers. Mark just hums in response, barely audible, and Jackson bites his lip to keep from giggling. He stares up at the ceiling, absently rubbing one hand over Mark’s back, and marvels at the direction this night took. Before he falls asleep, he makes a solemn promise, to himself and their staff and the rest of the group, for as long as he can remember: 

He will never complain about the paper or Pepero games again.


End file.
